As the Mouse Turns

(or as I like to think of it, "Sure, old houses have character, I just don't appreciate the character's droppings in my measuring cups.")

It was lunchtime.

And with machinations typical to noon repast, Trevor had left the table again, to effect delicate adjustments via the microwave.

"I hear something...like a mouse chewing wood."

Great. I got up from the table, cocked my good ear--the one with 45% efficiency--and listened.

Faint cracking and crunching sounds were indeed emanating from the kitchen counter.

Carefully I lifted the freshly baked loaves of bread, followed by assorted decorative canisters, followed by pulling forward the Christmas garland.

The upper strata of counter clutter removed, it took but a few moments to move the toaster its accompanying crumbs. Scattered peanut shells appeared, the remnants of forgotten Christmas sacks.

One by one I lifted odd bowls which destiny had ordained as junk-holders.

As a added precaution, I located a rusted mouse trap and positioned it at one end of the counter.

It would never spring, but perhaps jumping over it would slow any potential escape by a few milliseconds.

Finally, the last obstacle removed, I glimpsed the trembling mouse, crouched against the back splash, its eyes wide with fear and uncertainty.

In all honesty its eyes could have been glazed due to eating poison, but I prefer to think my corpulently superior presence had given Mr. Mouse that deer-in-the-headlight look.

Now, normally this might have induced sympathy in my aged and compassionate heart. But after finding mouse droppings in a 1-cup glass measure this morning....No.

"What weapon?" I thought to myself. I could go for a wooden spoon, but in that time the rodent-of-evil might whisk out of sight.

Instead, having recently viewed an old Gunsmoke episode, I chose the forthright approach and went after the mouse with my fist.

The mouse had messed with the wrong Ma.

The mouse was going to pay.

Until it ran away, that is. I made some contact but the mouse jumped to the floor and disappeared from sight.

Now my hand was starting to hurt; punching the counter was probably not a great idea.

However, within minutes I heard an urgent call from Nolan, in the living room,  "Mom....I found the mouse!"

And there it was, spread-eagle under the card table; the table holding the boys' Risk game.

Ah, sweet irony of life.
For though you coyly played with me,
And pranced on glass and cutlery,
It's clear who won out in the end.
The risks you took you couldn't defend.

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